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She set out to expose his true nature, but the secrets revealed were
her own…
In the aftermath of war and
revolution, cavalry officer Olivier Valencourt, the comte de Chaumenay, only
wants peace. But his discovery of his deceased brother’s child in a Montmartre
hovel leads to a battle of wills with the lovely but evasive American
struggling to provide for him. Determined to gain custody of his nephew,
Olivier sets out to win the audacious bohemian’s trust with patronage and
patience, but her courage, wisdom, and innocent sensuality divert his agenda.
Painter Jeanne Delancy has good
reason to despise the portrait-worthy count before she ever meets him. She
believes he’s the man who seduced and deserted her friend long ago.
Unfortunately, the talented and persuasive Olivier is hard to dislike or resist
in person.
Conflicted by loyalty to her
missing friend and her duty to the abandoned six-year-old she’s vowed to
protect, Jeanne feels obligated to give the war hero the opportunity to prove
he’s worthy of knowing his son. But the independent woman who thinks herself
immune to temptation underestimates Olivier in many ways and reveals far more
than she ever anticipates. While the strong-willed opposites struggle to reconcile
their deepest longings, dangerous alliances and scandalous secrets threaten a
tragic repetition of history.
Warning: This title is intended for readers over the age of 18 as it
contains adult sexual situations and/or adult language, and may be considered
offensive to some readers.
Excerpt
The door opened, and the
impersonal explanation he’d memorized vanished from his mind. He’d expected to
see the lithesome, titian-haired beauty he’d known long ago in Burgundy.
Instead, he encountered a petite brunette in a paint-smeared smock. There was
also paint in one of the corkscrews of hair which had fallen free of her
chignon. Something about the woman arrested him though he deemed her
unconventionally pretty at best with her wide forehead, long nose, and dainty
mouth. Perhaps it was her reaction to him. He could sense the frantic beating
of her heart, and her golden brown eyes telegraphed wariness.
He regretted causing her distress
and hastened to explain himself. “Good afternoon. I am Olivier Valencourt.” He
bowed instinctively. “I’m looking for Claudine Ardaut, and I was informed she
lived here. Is she at home?”
The young woman swallowed and
hesitated, clearly debating her reply. “I am not familiar with anyone by that
name.”
Her French was
grammatically correct, but her accent revealed her as American. It surprised
him to find a foreigner in Paris now. It was unlikely that she’d come here
recently. The ruins of landmarks and homes and the mass burials of the executed
made Paris a tourist destination only for those with a morbid taste for
tragedy. She must have come before the war. There had been little warning when
France declared war against Prussia. Many foreigners found themselves trapped
inside the barricades along with working-class Parisians without the resources
to leave.
“I was given this
address by a reliable source,” he persisted. Instinct told him she was lying.
“Are you implying
that I’m lying to you?” she asked in her slow, unnatural-sounding manner of
speech.
“Certainly not. I
was merely hoping you might know some little detail which would enable me to
find her.”
Absently, she touched her face,
leaving umber fingerprints upon her cheek. He felt an irrational urge to wipe
the paint from her smooth, fair skin. She was pretty by any standard, he
decided.
“Why are you looking for this
woman? Has she done something wrong?”
“No. I’ve come on a personal
matter.”
If anything, she looked even more defensive. Her
enormous eyes filled with censure as if she knew what he’d done and the
ramifications. The guilt he’d been trying to suppress for weeks finally
assailed him. If only he’d kept his opinions to himself, so many lives might
have turned out differently.
Her evasiveness maddened him. He only wished to
complete his mission and be done with the whole matter, and she was keeping him
from accomplishing that. He’d overcome far more challenging obstacles than a
reticent female. He’d been good at persuading women at one time though he could
scarcely recall those years now. Searching for some way to draw her out, his
glance fell upon her voluminous smock. Sometimes the best strategy was the most
obvious one. “You are a painter, I see. I recently came into possession of some
property and could use some new art for decoration. Do you have anything for
sale?”
She frowned, instantly
suspicious. “Nothing is finished.”
“I know how you artists are.
Nothing is ever completed to your satisfaction.” He took a step toward the
threshold. “Why don’t you allow me to be the judge?”
She held her ground. “I’m certain
my style would be too modern to suit your taste.”
She folded her arms about her
waist, and his eyes were instantly drawn to her small form. She possessed a
better figure than he’d thought, full round breasts and a tiny waist. A strange
sort of agitation arose inside him. With astonishment, he recognized the
sensation as lust. He hadn’t felt desire for so many months he’d feared he
might never regain that part of his nature. Though he felt reassured that all
was in working order, the inappropriateness of his irrational attraction
irritated him. “And you know my taste.”
She surveyed his uniform from his
polished boots to his fitted jacket with its neat rows of small gold buttons
and black braiding. “You are an officer of some sort. A military man. I would
guess you are conservative and view art primarily in terms of investment.”
He’d never given a second thought
to art, but he didn’t appreciate her making assumptions about him. “There you
are wrong. As it happens, I prefer more modern pieces. Besides, your refusal to
let me judge your work only makes me more curious about it.”
About the Author
Bess Greenfield grew up in Pittsburgh and graduated from
Cornell University and University of Pittsburgh School of Law. Before coming to
the conclusion that she should pursue her passion and become a novelist, she
worked as a journalist for several newspapers, as a lawyer, and as a waitress
(disastrously). She is a lifelong aficionado of romantic literature and
currently lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, three children, and
overly affectionate chocolate Labrador. When she is not dreaming up and
researching new stories or driving her children somewhere, she enjoys
traveling, walking in the forest, and adding to her growing collection of
native Virginia plants. For more information about Bess Greenfield and her
books, please visit www.bessgreenfield.com.
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